Page 58 of We Are Just Us

“Nothing’s different. I’m just…having a good week.”

Devon didn’t move. She had a gift for weaponized silence, standing there until the other person cracked. Kieran had seen her do it to a customer who tried to use an expired coupon. The man had eventually apologized for the coupon’s behavior.

Kieran held firm. Sipped his latte. Stared at his screen.

“Fine,” Devon said. “Keep your secrets.” She wiped down the counter next to him, not quite leaving. “You finish The Song of Achilles yet? Next book club is coming up fast.”

Kieran had finished it.

He’d read it twice before, once in his early twenties when he was still pretending he was reading it for the prose, and once last year when he finally admitted to himself why a love story between two men had wrecked him. This reread was his third time through, and it hit differently than the others.

Closer to the bone.

“Finished it last night,” he said.

“And?”

Kieran considered his answer. He could say something smart. Something about grief, or mythology, or the way Miller wrote love from the inside out.

“It’s extremely hot.”

Devon’s eyebrows shot up. She glanced around the shop—two customers in the corner, neither paying attention—then leaned in, voice low and delighted.

“That’s your takeaway?”

“I mean…the writing. The way she writes about them together. It’s—” He was making it worse. He was making it worse. Actively. In real time. “It’s a…well-crafted book.”

“That happens to be hot.”

“That happens to have moments of intense emotional intimacy?”

Devon was biting her lip now, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Kieran. Are you blushing?”

“No.”

“You are absolutely blushing.”

“It’s hot in here. You should check your thermostat.”

“Patti’s going to lose her mind,” Devon said, shaking her head. “She’s been crying about the fig tree scene for a week. I can’t wait to tell her your primary literary analysis is that it’s…” She dropped her voice to a stage whisper. “Extremely hot.”

“Please don’t.”

“Oh, I absolutely will.” She straightened up, tossing the dish towel over her shoulder. “Wednesday. Six. Don’t be late. And for the record, you’re right. It is hot. But I’m not the one who admitted it in a coffee shop.”

She walked back behind the counter, and Kieran could hear her still laughing as she pulled shots for the next customer.

He sat there, face burning, coffee getting cold, the cursor still blinking on his draft.

He spent the next hour writing. The Del Mar piece came together once he stopped fighting it, less about the beach itself and more about the way people behaved when they thought no one was paying attention.

He liked the piece.

It was sharp but not mean. Observational without being superior. He scheduled it for Friday morning and closed his laptop.

His phone buzzed.